


What's in a Name

by stepstostars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M, extensive swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepstostars/pseuds/stepstostars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's not the only Holmes who has trouble remembering Lestrade's name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's in a Name

**Author's Note:**

> Some vague references to S3E2, but not really. Also semi-vague references to m/m sex. And extensive cursing. And there's a minor quotation of Shakespeare in here, because this fic needs _some_ class.
> 
> Oh, and Mycroft's kind of a dick in this.

It takes ten seconds and a, let’s say, meticulous analysis of the man’s physical features for Mycroft to conclude that Sherlock’s detective inspector is _extremely_ attractive.

It takes a little while longer to get his name right. 

\--

Mycroft realises he’s been staring for too long when he sees the Inspector look directly into his eyes, one eyebrow raised.

“Will that be all, Mr. Holmes?” he asks.

“Mm.” Mycroft takes one last glance before shrugging and waving a hand in dismissal. “Yes, Gabriel.”

There’s a pregnant pause where Mycroft doesn’t hear the shuffling of feet. On the contrary, all he hears is a cut-off cough and the shuffling of a cheap coat. _“Excuse me?”_ says the Inspector, and drat, he had thought for a second it might be right this time.

“Geoff?” he tries.

“No,” says the Inspector flatly. “Not even close.”

Mycroft tries his best to look suitably chastised, but he’s not actually sure which expression is especially appropriate for this occasion. Social interaction really is such a chore.

He tries on a grimace and a slight shrugging of the shoulders.

“You really have utterly no idea, do you?” asks the Inspector with exasperation. “We have literally talked to each other over twenty times. Do you even know my last name?”

“Le—” he starts, and the Inspector looks almost encouraging. “—strange?”

“Oh, Christ.” The Inspector looks even more distressed than usual. “I can’t believe I _slept_ with you. Bloody bollocks.”

And really, Mycroft can’t help but look a little smug at that—he’s only human.

“No,” The Inspector says crossly. “You don’t get to smirk like that—god, you and your brother are identical just—” he swipes his arm through the air. “Last time I ever make that mistake.”

\--

Mycroft wakes up to a sunny day that matches his chipper mood. He stretches his arms, taking comfort in the slight aches and the complete lack of stress lining his neck and back. If indulging in his libido continues to result in such beneficial gains, he may just have to add it as a regularly scheduled activity.

There’s a grumble from beneath the covers and another body curls up to accidentally bump into him. The body freezes for a second before a head warily pops out from beneath the blanket.

“Oh, lovely,” Mycroft says cheerfully. “You’re finally up, Garrett.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Another wrong turn on the name, then, judging by the upset look on the Inspector’s face. “Bloody shit on a fucking—”

“Just a bit of overindulgence, George,” interrupts Mycroft easily. “A few too many whiskeys at the wedding.”

“You weren’t at the wedding,” says the Inspector automatically.

Mycroft shrugs. “I simply deduced from the state of your dress when you showed up at my door last night.”

The Inspector’s eyes widen to a comical size at that before a furrow appears between his eyebrows. “Wait, I don’t know your address.”

Mycroft coughs. “Yes, well, Sherlock doesn’t know yours, either.”

The Inspector continues staring at him, and Mycroft frowns at the implications of the silence. “I didn’t take advantage,” he says, scandalised. “I put you in one of the guest rooms, but woke up to your presence in my bed in the middle of the night. You were enthusiastically sober at the time.” Mycroft blinks before another piece of information slots into place. “I presume that your reference to ‘that bitch Elaine’ in addition to an added ‘shoving her men in my face’ means your ex-wife was present at the ceremony with her latest paramour?”

“I told myself I wouldn’t do this again,” says the Inspector—Mycroft would almost say whining if he didn’t feel almost sad for the Inspector’s situation—completely ignoring Mycroft’s last question.

Maybe a little too early to address that point, then.

“Oh, Gavin.” Mycroft tentatively pats the Inspector on the back a few times. “It’s only human nature to respond to unexpected stressors by indulging in pleasure-seeking and high-risk behavior. Your actions were extremely appropriate considering the context.”

There, that’s what people did, right? Comfort and all that other emotional commiseration nonsense?

“This is my life,” says the Inspector dully. “Pity fucks with arrogant pricks who can’t even remember my name.”

“I thought our sex was quite adequate, really,” says Mycroft. Because, really, the rest of the statement was a relatively accurate assessment.

At the Inspector’s withering glare, he shrugs. “Pity adds a connotation of mediocrity.”

“Satisfying fucks with condescending arseholes who can’t remember my bloody name,” corrects the Inspector.

And, really, nothing to fix there.

\--

Mycroft’s standing at the edge of a crime scene waiting for his dear, stupid dolt of a brother and his shadow to report back when he hears the characteristic sounds of Sherlock starting to irritate someone to the point of abject fury.

“Glenn,” Sherlock says loudly. “Or maybe Gordon?”

“ _No,_ ” shouts someone who can only be the Inspector based off context and substance of dialogue. “Christ, you are _insufferable._ ”

John just looks resigned to his fate, palm seemingly attached to his forehead.

“Well, come off it, Lestrade.” The trio’s nearing Mycroft now, and his ears perk up at the name.

“Lestrade!” he says delightedly. “Of course.”

Lestrade turns to stare at him, face paling as he realises who exactly just said his surname. “What.”

Sherlock, playing straight to character, completely ignores both outbursts. “Grant. Gavin?”

“Already tried that,” adds Mycroft. “Godfrey?”

“Gareth? Garrick.”

“Gaius or Gideon?”

“For the last bloody time, _NO,_ ” shouts Lestrade. “How is it that you two can deduce someone’s occupation from their fingers, but you can’t even figure out my sodding first name?”

“What’s in a name?” says Sherlock quickly as Mycroft adds, “That which we call a rose by any other name will smell just as sweet.”

John’s broken from his reverie of apathetic misery, moving onto holding his stomach and trying not to cry from laughter while Lestrade slowly turns an ugly shade of red. “I expect to see you both in court tomorrow,” he manages to say between grit teeth. “I’m clocking out now to go drink a tremendous amount of beer.”

Mycroft smiles beatifically and hands Lestrade a card. He’s been waiting for an appropriate moment, and none seems better than this. “In case you overindulge again.”

Sherlock eyes the exchange between them with a look of horrified disgust. “ _Goldfish,_ ” he says loudly. “Mycroft, _you didn’t._ ”

Mycroft just shrugs. “Believe what you must to sleep well at night, brother dear.” 

\--

There’s a knock on his door at ten in the evening—just as he’s settling in for a two-hour nap as a break before he starts on the immense pile of paperwork on his desk (by his estimates, it would sustain a fire for two days and three hours if he burned it efficiently enough). The CCTV reveals it to be Lestrade, arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

Suddenly, there are more pleasurable things to be done than sleeping or balancing bureaucracy.

He opens the door, another try at a name on his lips—

“No,” says Lestrade, before he can get out a word. “Don’t even try, just be quiet.”

Mycroft blinks and nods, stepping back to allow Lestrade entrance. “Any other pressing requests?”

“I’m not drunk,” says Lestrade. “I’m being pragmatic. Finding and pulling someone at a bar is beyond my capacity of caring right now, especially when there’s an adequate, and, more importantly enough, easier option available.”

“Yes, of course.” Mycroft nods along in what he hopes is an appeasing manner—he hasn’t really been listening, too busy determining the fastest way to disrobe the both of them.

It’d be best if he could simply tear through the buttons, but Mycroft hasn’t seen any evidence that Lestrade might enjoy bodice-rippers or having one of his favorite shirts ruined, so he settles for unbuttoning them the traditional way. Pants, he can pull down with the trousers.

Plan of action settled, he holds out a hand and his best winning smile. “Shall we move along, then?”

Lestrade eyes him warily. “No names,” he warns, but he does take Mycroft’s hand.

And, really, Mycroft can’t help but be a little contrary. Rules were made to be broken, resistance is futile, et cetera, et cetera.

So as he feels Lestrade crest onto his orgasm, panting heavily as Mycroft lazily strokes his prick, Mycroft leans in. “Greg—” he breathes out, listening to the sudden hitch in Lestrade’s voice, a twitch in the prick in his hand and a spurt against his palm. “—son.”

Lestrade’s eyes shoot open, a familiar look of horrified anguish on his face. “Oh bloody Christ.”

“Wrong name again?” asks Mycroft with his best imitation of innocence.

“Fucking bloody shit,” replies Lestrade, closing his eyes and bringing a hand to his face. “Fuck.” 

\--

Mycroft’s on the fiftieth page of a two hundred-page treatise on the feasibility of colonising the moon when he’s interrupted by his phone vibrating.

**You’re disgusting.  
SH**

The text’s a little unexpected, but not beyond Sherlock’s immaturity.

 **Pardon?**  
**MH**

He makes a note on the corner of the report detailing the possible psychosis of the author, with an added recommendation to a psychiatrist, and an assurance that the moon was most certainly not made of cheese.

 **That bruise on his wrist. It’s not like you to be so obvious.**  
**SH**

 **He’s rolled up his sleeves then?**  
**MH**

 **Unfortunately.**  
**SH**

Mycroft leans back then, just waiting for the inevitable text.

 **REALLY**  
**SH**

He allows himself a small triumphant smile then. Teasing his little brother always is such fun.

 **Wipe that stupid smirk off your face, you smug walrus.**  
**SH**

 **Up to his elbow?**  
**SH**

 **Shoulder.**  
**MH**

 **Ugh. One might think you almost care.**  
**SH**

 **Do give Gray my love.**  
**MH**

There’s a moment of vibrating-less peace, which Mycroft takes advantage of to add the finishing touches to the moon-colonising report.

_As no signs of complex life have been reported on the moon, you may want to check up on yours facts as to not sound like an insane conspiracy theorist._

There’s a buzz, and he spares his phone a glance.

 **NOT GRAY EITHER, YOU INFURIATING TWAT.**  
**GL**

Oh, lovely, this saves him the need to text Lestrade first.

 **Pick you up at seven for dinner?**  
**MH**

 **Bugger. Off.**  
**GL**

 **Wonderful, I’ll send a car, Gerard.**  
**MH**

 **I hate you and, seeing as its seems to have escaped your notice, I’m busy with this murder I have to solve.**  
**GL**

 **Tell Sherlock to check the pantry.**  
**MH**

 **Shit. How did you—?**  
**GL**

 **Dinner at seven, dearest Gerald.**  
**Lots of love, xoxo, etc.**  
**MH**

\--

Mycroft’s waiting at the entrance of the restaurant—umbrella tucked comfortably into the crook of his arm and his pinstriped suit switched out for a more casual, solid palette.

Lestrade steps out of the black town car in a wrinkled, crumpled suit and a confused frown. “Oh,” he says. “Not exactly what I was expecting.”

Mycroft blinks and looks back at the restaurant behind him—a well-reviewed Indian establishment for its moderate price range with a flexible dress code and an especially excellent vegetarian menu. The curry’s probably decent, as well.

“The restaurant, I mean,” adds Lestrade. “I thought we’d just do takeout and—I didn’t exactly expect to be wined and dined.”

“Ah,” says Mycroft. Has he missed some subtle social behavior? He’ll have to redo his calculations again in his spare time; social interaction really is so puzzling. “Well, that is still an option if you’d prefer it.”

Lestrade eyes him oddly for a moment. “What’s my name?” he finally asks.

“Gene,” replies Mycroft automatically.

Lestrade’s face immediately shutters into a blank mask. “Yeah,” he says absently. “Let’s go with takeout.”

\--

Lately, Mycroft finds himself waking up next to Lestrade more often than not—something he’s not sure is positive or negative. He does feel much more relaxed and content, but the idea of letting someone so close is—off-putting, really. He’s never given it much thought before.

This morning, though, he finds Lestrade in a staring match against a light on the ceiling, and although he’s become used to his—partner(?)’s oddities, this one strikes him as stranger than the rest.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks.

Lestrade’s gaze doesn’t stray from the light. “This is months late and hundreds of bad decisions far down the line, but I’ve finally decided that maybe, just maybe, I’m worth more than this.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to sleep with someone who can’t even remember my name.”

His eyes drop down to meet Mycroft’s, smile slightly crooked. “I know I’m probably about as interesting as a goldfish to you—that this is some futile fight against the human condition of inevitable loneliness—” He gives a little shrug here, pushing himself to his feet and off the bed. “But I want to think that I do matter. Well, _will_ matter to someone out there.”

Mycroft quickly reaches out an arm, catching Lestrade by the wrist before he can fully leave the bed. “June 3rd, 1977,” he says. “Two older brothers, mother a schoolteacher and father a nurse, penchant for football, especially Arsenal, blindingly hot Tikka Masala, and rainy weather. You don’t know how to swim, you’re a terrible shot with a gun, and you have a poorly hidden sweet tooth.”

“Greg Arthur Lestrade, if you think for a second that I hadn’t memorised my brother’s arresting officer from the moment I learned your name two years and five months ago, you have severely underestimated me.”

Lestrade blinks for a second, eyes widening in muted surprise. “But why all the names, then?”

Ah, the instinctive urge to seek out explanations for phenomena, even when the answer will only cause anger and serve to be completely unsatisfactory in the end. Such an utterly _human_ and refreshing trait.

Mycroft shrugs. “It caught your attention, didn’t it?”

Lestrade gapes at him. “You _sodding_ prick. Is that why Sherlock does it, too?”

“Oh, no,” he says. “Sherlock really does find it to be extraneous information. His method for memory categorisation’s distressingly inefficient.”

“Dear Lord,” says Lestrade. “You are a cruel man with no mercy, making me put up with these two arrogant pricks, no matter how satisfactory the sex is with one of them, considering he’s pretended not to know my name for _two years_.”

And, really, nothing to fix there.

**Author's Note:**

> Twenty different names (including Greg)! Twenty-one if you include "Goldfish" as a name.


End file.
